Few Can Foresee
by Laseri
Summary: Edited and reposted. Legolas' point of view, the day Gandalf returns to them in Fangorn Forest. Very blatantly bookverse.


Edited and reposted, now with no intention of continuing because I know I'll never get around to it. So, bookverse, purely Legolas' point of view, the day Mithrandir re-appears in Fangorn.

Disclaimer: I don't own LotR or anything from it featuring in this fic. The dialogue is taken from TTT, and also some phrases.

"Few can foresee whither their road will lead them, until they come to its end."  
"But we did not wish to come to Fangorn."  
"Yet here we are—" A white flicker crosses my sight. I stifle a gasp: few indeed can foresee whither a road will lead! "—and nicely caught in the net. Look!"  
"Look at what?"

I am too agitated to be irritated, although sometimes Gimli's mission in life seems to be to test the limits of my patience. "There in the trees."

"Where? I have not elf-eyes."

At other times, though, he aids himself by stating the obvious. The fact had eluded my excited mind until Gimli reminded me of my own nature. But I must restrain myself—it is not well to let him know of his own importance too often.

"Hush! Speak more softly!" The dwarves have voices prone to unexpected rising—something I know from long experience.

"Look! Down in the wood, back in the way we have just come. It is he." It is he—he that visited us only a short while ago. It seems he has followed us, undetected, every step since then. He slips silently through the trees—suddenly a sharp shock breaks over me. One small movement brings back a flood of memories, each flashing briefly through my numbed mind, my heart—a snowy pass, a group huddled under a cliff, a lone figure standing there, watching two Men gradually growing smaller as they trudge through great drifts of white. Darkness, a great voice shouting in despair, a small crowd fleeing in terror. They look back on a shining form, small yet defiant to the last. The horror falls, defeated—and the figure stumbles, unquestioningly follows it—and is gone into the depths of a dark, bottomless chasm.

My sight clears: I am still in Fangorn, in the sunlight—but my heart is now in darkness. Mithrandir. For a fleeting moment I thought I had seen him, walking alive once more in the forest. But it could not be; it could never be. Despair begins to grip me—and is suddenly displaced by a curious expectancy. For maybe—something is approaching, a concealed power—maybe somehow, it could be...

My wonderings are suddenly interrupted. Evidently Gimli has no hope left, or else it has not occurred to him to hope. "Your bow, Legolas! Bend it! Get ready!"

His voice is as a crow's harsh cry breaking the silence of dawn. I reluctantly lay hold of the bow of Galadriel—after all, he may be right. Maybe there is no reason for vain optimism. But, however futile and small my hope may be, I will not give it up until I must—until there is no hope left in hope itself.

"Legolas is right." I snap out of my reverie.

"We may not shoot at an old man so, at unawares and unchallenged, whatever fear or doubt be upon us."

Thank you, Estel.

"Watch and wait." I have no intention of doing anything but that, my friend.

The old man is looking up at us. I can feel the keenness of his gaze. He sees me, all I am thinking. His eyes are hidden, but they are bright and sharp. I am again reminded of our guide. Our companion. Our true friend. Mithrandir. There must be hope.

"Well met indeed, my friends." Friends? My heart beats at the sound of that voice. So strange, yet somehow familiar...

"I wish to speak to you. Will you come down, or shall I come up?" He begins to climb towards us; he is amazingly agile for one seeming so old. I may muse, but Gimli is impatient. I cannot blame him; it is the mark of a young dwarf.

"Now! Stop him, Legolas!"

But once again, I cannot.

"Did I not say that I wished to speak to you? Put away that bow, Master Elf!" I am as one in a dream; I feel the weapon drops from my hands, and I am glad. I have no wish to harm this stranger. I know a force is in him no arrow, sword, or axe can overcome. Now he has spoken to Gimli. I can see he is startled. He looks so confused, it is almost comical—but I am soon distracted by a gleam, too brief for certainty, a quick glint of white—my mind awakes from its numbed state.

"Well met, I say again! And what may you be doing in these parts? An Elf, a man and a dwarf, all clad in elvish fashion. No doubt there is a tale worth hearing behind it all. Such things are not often seen here."

Aragorn is taking control of this strange situation. "You speak as one that knows Fangorn well. Is that so?" Both speakers are curious, yet the stranger seems to know much more than he is showing. I can hear the distant laughter in his voice as they converse, Aragorn still wary and unsure of the nature of this new arrival in our quest. Can he hear it too—the knowing smile behind the innocent-seeming words, as one who sees the answer to a riddle none can guess?

"As for what I wished to say, I have said it—what may you be doing, and what tale can you tell of yourselves? As for my name!" Yes, he can hear it. The laugh is free, floating in the morning. My friend is suddenly alert—he realises the power hidden within the bent, stooping old man. Or perhaps, more than a mere man...

"My name? Have you not guessed it already? You have heard it before, I think." A bright beam dispels the darkness in my heart. The seemingly futile hope I had is slowly growing. "Yes, you have heard it before. But come now, what of your tale?"

As sure as I feel, I cannot trust this stranger yet. Neither can my companions, for they too are silent. The stranger begins to speak again, seeming unwilling to leave too large a hole in the conversation.

"There are some who would begin to doubt whether your errand is fit to tell." His eyes dart towards me. He knows! Now he resumes speaking; his next words amaze me. "Happily I know something of it."

He does know. He knows more of those merry young hobbits we seek than we do ourselves. He turns and goes toward a mound of rubble behind us. The power over us is removed for a moment; I can move again. The bow is still on the ground. I pick it up for the sake of moving and bending down, after standing still unknowingly for so long.

He reaches the mound and sat down. The brief glint is suddenly explained. His grey rags draw apart and he is shining in the sun, his white garments only a thin veil over the great power radiating from within. My doubts all but disappear—

"Saruman!"

Gimli. Never stopping to consider, so fixed is the idea of Mithrandir's superior.

"Speak! Tell us where you have hidden our friends! What have you done with them? Speak, or I will make a dint in your hat that even a wizard will find it hard to deal with!"

But the old man is faster. Old no longer, he leaps to his feet. He towers above us all, a shining form in pure white. His staff lifts. The axe leaps from Gimli's hand. I have no doubts now. My hopes were not in vain! My grief is gone, the cause annulled. As Aragorn's sword boldly blazes, I can no longer contain my gladness.

"Mithrandir!" An arrow soars toward the sun and blazes for a moment; then it is gone, and with it all the sadness I have borne, carried far away forever beyond the stars. "Mithrandir!" And I smile for pure joy, laugh, for I rejoice—and am glad that few indeed can foresee the end of their road.


End file.
